The Houses of Healing
by Siberia1
Summary: A gap-filler for ROTK. Discover the thoughts and feelings of Faramir and Éowyn as they are falling in love. (I always thought Tolkien was weak on this.) Includes flashbacks with various characters. Update: Added first half of fifth chapter.
1. The Vision of Númenor

**The Houses of Healing**  
Chapter 1 – The Vision of Númenor  
by Siberia

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters here, nor am I making any money out of this. I just love _Lord of the Rings_, and this is my second attempt at fan fiction. 

I would like to give a special thanks to Snitter in Rivendell for pointing out a serious mistake that I had committed in the original version of this chapter.

* * *

_A great island before stood before him. It was shaped like a five-pointed star. He marvelled at its splendour; beautiful forests of blossoming trees, rolling hills, vast meadows, and sparkling rivers stretched across its landscape. Scattered throughout the isle were tall and majestic palaces, towers, and statues. "This must be Elenna," he thought," the land of star given to the Edain by the Valar for their services during the War of the Jewels."_

Suddenly, he heard a ferocious roar beneath his feet. A mighty earthquake began to shake the land. It was as if Ulmo, the Ocean Lord, was furious at Andor ("the land of gift"). The Vala Ulmo arose from his deep, watery World, and sent forth a monstrous tidal wave to engulf the island. Large areas of the landmass were obliterated beneath the impact. The realm of Westernesse sunk deeper and deeper into the Great Sea. Until finally, it was no more.

*****  
  
Faramir opened his eyes. He was at first confused by his surroundings, but then recalled that he was lying in the Houses of Healing. He woke up feeling hungry, which was a good sign, for it meant that he was beginning to regain his appetite. The young Steward still felt drained and exhausted, but he knew that sleep would not bring him any more relief. A pale morning light had begun to seep through the windows, and as he tried to lift himself out of bed, he was instantly struck by a wave of dizziness.

The Lord Aragorn had recently healed Faramir from the curse of the Black Breath, and although the young Captain's life was no longer in any danger, he had not been completely released from all of its ill effects. Faramir was grateful, at least, that the Valar had spared him from the dark imagery that had haunted his mind for days while he was plagued by the Black Breath. The Lord of the City allowed his body to fall back down unto the bed, and he decided to focus instead on his dream. "The Fall of Númenor," he whispered to himself. The second son of Denethor dreamt oft of this catastrophic event throughout his life. While he pondered over the images, a memory from his past entered his mind. 

*****  
  
Throughout his childhood, Faramir had wondered about this recurring vision. He told his brother about his dreams, but Boromir could not offer any answers. When the little boy approached his father about it, the old Steward simply scolded at his youngest son, and told him not to concern himself with such trivial matters.

His inquisitive mind remained restless 'til the arrival of Mithrandir at Minas Tirith. This was the Grey Wanderer's first visit to Gondor since the death of Finduilas. As a five-year-old child, Faramir had watched the old man toil at his mother's bedside, doing all that he could to save her life. However, Finduilas' spirit was already much too weak by the time Mithrandir arrived, and she withered away soon after.

Faramir was ten years old, and assisted the Wizard with his research in the library. During his months there, the Grey Pilgrim had grown fond of the boy, and would occasionally give him lessons in history, lore, language, politics, and economics, focusing on subjects the old man knew would not be covered fully in his regular schooling. At this particular session, Mithrandir perceived that his pupil's attention was not at its full capacity.

"Tell me what is preoccupying you, young Faramir, for it seems to be interfering with your ability to concentrate on writing Quenya," the teacher declared. 

The second son of Denethor lowered his quill and looked up from his book. At first, the lad was hesitant to speak, for he feared to be humiliated for his strange visions. The Grey Wanderer perceived this, and deducted from watching their unstable relationship that Faramir's father must have yelled at his youngest son oft for voicing out his thoughts. The Wizard added, "Do not worry, you can confide in me. I promise not to tell one word to the Steward about this." 

Mithrandir's tone was so kind and reassuring that the boy replied without a second thought. "Last night, I dreamt of a grand star-shaped island, beautiful to behold, with regal landscapes and structures. Then, an enormous wave crashed upon it, and the isle plummeted beneath the Sea. This is not the first time that I have received this apparition. I always suspected that it was Elenna, from the stories my mother used to tell me. But I was never completely sure what it is I saw, for how could I witness this in a dream when it was destroyed long before I was born?" 

The Grey Pilgrim stared at his student with curious eyes. "I do not know. However, I can assure you that your vision is indeed that of Númenor, which foundered near the end of the Second Age of the Sun." The old man paused. "Tell me, do you have prophetic dreams as well?" 

Faramir nodded. "Sometimes. I know which ones will come true, and no matter what I do to try to change or prevent it, the event occurs not long after I see it." 

Gandalf raised an eyebrow at this response. This surprised him greatly, for he knew that Boromir had possessed none of these qualities, and had assumed that Faramir was of the same nature.

_I must keep an eye on this lad,_ the Wizard thought quietly. _Although the Dúnedain were occasionally blessed with prophecy, it never manifested itself in this fashion. Whatever Elvish blood Fiduilas carried within her, it must run strong in her youngest son if he possesses such foresight. 'Tis a shame that Denethor treats him so poorly, for I fear Faramir may be one of the last Men to carry both the graciousness of the kings of old and the wisdom of the Eldar race._

"Mithrandir, why do I dream of these things?" Faramir asked, slightly uncomfortable with his teacher's silence. 

The Grey Wanderer sighed. "I may be wise, but even I cannot discern the ways of the Valar. Perhaps they favour you in some fashion. All I can say is that it is a gift that you inherited from your mother, and that you must bear with it for the rest of your life."

*****  
  
_Was it truly a gift, or a curse?_ the Lord of the City asked himself. He had received the vision of the Reforged Sword and Isildur's Bane many times, and it had cost him his dear brother's life. Faramir had wanted to travel to Imladris to uncover the riddle behind his dream, and the old Steward was more than willing to allow his disfavoured son to pursue this "absurd" quest. But Boromir interfered, for he too had seen the vision once while in the presence of his younger sibling, and had used his favour with Denethor to have him represent Gondor at Elrond's Council. 

"And now I am all alone," Faramir uttered quietly. His brother was no longer within the Circles of the World, and he had recently been informed of his father's sudden demise. He did not yet know this, but Denethor's first, last, and only act of love towards his youngest son appeared under the form of madness and despair. The Steward had tried to burn himself and Faramir in a great funeral pyre, in hopes of saving him and his son from what Denethor believed was a worse fate. 

*****  
  
Shortly after Aragorn had used the steam from the athelas plant to free Faramir from his illness, Gandalf had sat by the young man's bedside to notify him of his loss. The old man took care not to mention the Steward's insanity and suicide, for he knew that it could severely interfere with the healing process. He silently watched as the young Captain's eyelids fluttered open in the dimness of the chamber, lit only by the flickering flame of a single candle.

Faramir awoke to see his former teacher sitting by his side. He was puzzled, for he had expected to greet the Lord Denethor.

"Mithrandir, where is my father?" the young man asked, his tone weak from fatigue. "Has he no concern for his remaining son? Why have I not seen him throughout my illness?"

The Wizard took a deep breath and said gently, "Faramir, I am sorry to have to inform you this, but the Lord Denethor is dead."

The Captain was stricken by the news, his face laced with horror. "But how can this be? My father and I parted in anger! I had hoped to amend the bitterness between us. All of my life, 'twas all I ever wanted from my Lord. Are you saying that I am denied even reconciliation?"

Gandalf's following words had struck Faramir so violently in his heart that it made him weep. "I assure you that during his last moments, your father loved you as much as he ever did Boromir."

Though tears were flowing freely from his grey eyes, Faramir managed to ask through his sobs, "How...how did he die?"

"I cannot tell you that, yet. For now, you must rest and recover your strength. But you will know the answer in time."

*****  
  
When the spell of dizziness had passed, the Lord of the City arose from his bed. After he had taken a quick bath, he proceeded to his breakfast, remaining consumed within his melancholic thoughts. _So much grief and pain, occurring all at once. 'Tis probably not worth wasting my time moping, for the War might destroy everything in Middle-Earth._ Faramir sighed. _But even if Sauron is defeated, what will I have to look forward to? Never in my life have I felt so alone, so desolate from the world. And I will surely lose my office when the Lord Aragorn reclaims the throne in a season's time._

The Warden of the Houses of Healing had witnessed the Captain's deteriorating mood, and counselled him to seek the company of the trees and flowers growing in the gardens. "It will do you good, my Lord, to have some fresh air," the Warden said. Faramir followed his advice, and as he strolled around the gardens, little did he know of the woman he would meet later that day. 


	2. The Black Breath

**The Houses of Healing**  
Chapter 2 – The Black Breath  
by Siberia

* * *

_"Uncle! Cousin!" she exclaimed. She ran across the plains of Rohan to greet Théoden and Théodred. She placed her arms around the two men and embraced them, for she loved them dearly, as she would her father and her brother. Tears of joy ran down her cheeks, which glistened under the warm sunshine. "I thought you were dead!" she declared, unable to contain her excitement. "Or perhaps, I am the one who is now dead, but it matters not, for I am joyous beyond words that we are finally together again!"_

At that instant, a fell voice thundered in the air. The sky swiftly grew dark, consuming much of the light. A grotesque figure materialized before them, its mouth dripping words of the Black Speech. Although she could not understand what was being said, she could discern that the Shadow intended to harm her kinsmen. She stood firm, fearless of her opponent.

"Stay away, you foul beast! You shall not take them away from me again!" She reached for her sword, intending to smite the dreadful creature, but she was horrified to learn that her weapon was no longer by her side. The spectre easily threw her body against a rock face, and by the time she was able to lift herself up again, she suddenly became aware of the stench of blood trickling beneath her feet. Her gaze lowered to the ground, and she collapsed to her knees when she saw the slain bodies of Théoden and Théodred. "No!" she cried. 

*****  
  
Éowyn woke up screaming. Cold sweat covered her pale visage, her heart racing with agony. The Black Breath still hung heavily on her. She had fought valiantly against the Witch-King, but her victory came at a great cost. The Lord Aragorn had released her from the curse with the aid of athelas plant, but he knew that her wounds were deep and that her recovery would be slow. The White Lady had managed to calm herself down, realizing that it was only an apparition that she had experienced, and that she was a patient in the Houses of Healing.

However, that did not lessen the anguish or the frustration she felt, for her uncle and cousin were no longer part of this World. _All I have left is Éomer,_ Éowyn moaned silently. _What I would not give to be riding into battle with my brother at this moment! Yet, I am forced to remain here, wasting away while the War rages on._ A sharp pain emerged from her arm, and the Shield-maiden instinctively placed her hand on the wounded area, recalling the forceful blow with which the King of the Nazgûl had struck her. 

A servant girl had heard the commotion and rushed to her bedside. "My Lady, are you alright? I heard you screaming."

Éowyn suddenly felt embarrassed by her outburst, and she replied sternly in an attempt to retain her composure. "Yes, 'twas only a nightmare." The Lady of Rohan refused to lie in idleness any longer, and she sought to escape this prison. When she tried to rise from her bed, however, she nearly collapsed unto the floor. Only the presence of the young woman had broken her fall.

"My Lady," the servant girl uttered with concern, carefully ensuring that she has not touched the Shield-maiden's injured arm. "You should rest further; you have not yet recovered fully from your illness. Ioreth told me that you would not be completely healed for at least seven days..."

Éowyn then raised her voice in anger, "Seven days! War is brewing, the end of the world may be near, and you are telling me that I must stay here for seven days? I might as well rot to death! I do not desire to be treated like an invalid! Let go of me!"

The servant girl obeyed, raising her hands away from the patient. Éowyn began to lose her balance again, for the relentless headache had gripped her viciously. She closed her eyes from the extreme discomfort, her fingers gripping at her temples. Reluctantly, the White Lady leaned her body against the wall for support. The dizziness began to fade, and when she had settled down again, Éowyn commanded quietly, "Please prepare a bath for me. I am certain that I will feel better once I have cleansed myself."

The young woman bowed her head. "Yes, my Lady."

While Éowyn bathed, her mind wallowed in thoughts of her family and of the futile love she felt for Aragorn. _If only I was born a man,_ she uttered to herself. _My life would have been much simpler. I would have been permitted to fight, and perhaps my beloved kinsmen would not be lying in a cold grave if I had been by their side._ Tears swelled from her grey eyes as she pondered on this. At that moment, she suddenly became aware of the thumping of her own heartbeat. The Shield-maiden sighed. _Still I live, yet I desire death above all else. Curse this loveless, cruel world!_

Éowyn began recollecting mental images of the Lord Aragorn. How strong, noble, and handsome he had appeared to her was when she first laid eyes upon him! The Lady of Rohan saw him as an escape from her many forms of imprisonment; the lechery of Gríma, waiting on her dear uncle as his mind was being poisoned, seeing Rohirrim soldiers returning from battle butchered beyond recognition. But in the end, the Dúnedain Lord was not very different from the other men she had encountered in her life. Aragorn treated her as if she was but a helpless woman, always in need to be kept safe from danger. The warmth of the water had begun to soothe Éowyn's misery, and her mind then drifted into a haze, its thoughts lingering into the past...

****  
  
While at the Rohirrim sanctuary of Dunharrow, the Lord Aragorn had told the Lady Éowyn that he intended to travel towards the Paths of the Dead. She was stricken by his words; for the legends of her people foretold that no living man may pass that way without encountering certain death. She had tried to persuade him to join the King Théoden and Éomer in battle, but the Ranger of the North would not be gainsaid. Later in the evening, she had requested to accompany Aragorn in his quest. 

The Dúnedain Lord shook his head. "I say to you, Lady: Stay! For you have no errand in the South."

Éowyn glared into his eyes, her heart faltering at his rejection. She felt betrayed by Aragorn's hypocrisy, for she knew that Gimli, Legolas, and the men of his order were no more suited for this mission than she was, and yet they were allowed to follow him. "Neither have those others who go with thee," she replied sternly. "They go only because they would not be parted from thee - because they love thee." Leaving her subtle declaration of love behind, she swiftly returned to her bedchambers.

Early the next morning, the White Lady garbed herself as a Rider of the Mark; she was clad in chain mail and sported a sturdy helm. The maiden proudly carried her shield, which was embedded with the golden crest of a horse (the symbol of her people), over her shoulder. At her side rested a mighty sword, her weapon of choice. Éowyn was determined to ride with the Ranger, even if it meant pleading with him. The warrior in her soul would not be placated; her heart belonged on the battlefield, and she had grown tired of being left behind to mind the house simply because of her gender.

"Then wilt thou not let me ride with this company, as I have asked?" she inquired.

The Lord Aragorn responded gently, "I will not, Lady. For that I could not grant without the leave of the king and of your brother; and they will not return until tomorrow. But I count now on every hour, indeed every minute. Farewell!"

The Shield-maiden fell to her knees. "I beg thee!"

"Nay, Lady." He raised her from the ground to kiss her hand. Then, he rode away, never looking back, leaving behind a woman whose face became as stern and cold as the North winds. 

*****  
  
When she had finished with her bath, Éowyn bade the servant girl to bring her clothes while the healers set the Lady's arm in a sling of linen. She walked around the Houses of Healing in search of tidings from the War, but none of the servants could satisfy her curiosity. With no one left to turn to, the Lady of Rohan sought the Warden. They had disagreed on the state of her health, and Éowyn inquired about any news he might have heard. The Master of the Houses of Healing informed her that the Lords had ridden to Morgul Vale, and that a Ranger from the North was now leading the army.

The White Lady absorbed his words, moving her grey eyes towards his window, which peered eastward. Staring defiantly into the distance, she unknowingly clenched her fist. Hoping that the Dark Lord could hear her thoughts, her mind boldly proclaimed, "I may be injured, but I _still_ have plenty of blood lust left! Beware of the Shield-maiden's wrath, for she has already defeated your finest captain!" Éowyn gradually slipped out from her reverie, for she became wary of the silence that rested between her and the Warden. She spoke again.

"Who commands in this City?" the Lady of Rohan demanded. She did not want to wait in sloth a moment longer. The warrior that resided in her heart had once more summoned her into battle.

The Master looked at her helplessly, admitting that he did not know for certain. He hesitantly replied, "There is a marshal over the Riders of Rohan; and the Lord Húrin, I am told, commands the men of Gondor. But the Lord Faramir is by right the Steward of the City."

_He will do,_ Éowyn said to herself. "Where can I find him?" she asked out loud.

The Warden answered, "In this house, Lady. He was sorely hurt, but is now set again on the way to health. But I do not know -"

She abruptly cut him off, not wishing to waste another second. "Will you not bring me to him? Then you will know."


	3. The Steward and the Shieldmaiden

**The Houses of Healing**  
Chapter 3 - The Steward and the Shield-maiden  
by Siberia

* * *

Faramir was alone in the gardens. He was grateful that no other patient was here, for he took great delight in its tranquil serenity. He was glad that he had followed the Warden's suggestion, for the sight of the natural scenery around him lifted his spirits immensely. As the young Captain walked, he carefully admired the lush beauty of the surrounding flora with all of his senses, ensuring that his inquisitive touch did not harm a single fruit, petal or leaf. 

The young Steward could never intentionally hurt one of the earthly gifts of the Vala Yavanna without feeling a small ache in his soul. For as long as Faramir could remember, he had always possessed an instinctive desire to respect nature, and as a child, he was surprised to learn that no other person shared this trait. And as it happened many times before, the boy received an answer to his curiosity through the wise and knowledgeable Mithrandir.

*****

"Not another question, young Faramir!" the Grey Pilgrim exclaimed, his voice riddled exasperation. Gandalf slammed the pile of dusty scrolls he was studying onto the desk, unable to concentrate due to the lad's incessant demands for answers. "If I received a gold coin for every inquiry you have asked me since I arrived here, I would be able to purchase Minas Tirith from your father!" 

"_Please_, Mithrandir," the child pleaded, his grey eyes wide with unrest. "I promise this will be the last one for today."

The Wizard looked at his pupil with great scepticism and said, "Promise?"

"Yes, I promise!" Faramir declared. "I swear by the Valar that you will not hear another peep from me for the remainder of the day if you answer this last question."

The old man took a deep breath and uttered, "Oh, alright."

It was in this moment the boy learned that carrying Elvish blood in his veins entailed more than just strange visions and prophetic dreams.

"Elves have a special relationship with nature," Mithrandir explained. "They can sense both its joy and its pain. This is why Elves like to live close to forests, for the trees fill their hearts with great happiness. When one of Yavanna's creations perishes, however, a part of their essence becomes empty, as if they had lost a good friend. You cannot feel emotions as keenly or as deeply as a full-blooded Elf, of course, but you certainly possess much more empathy than the average man."

After he had absorbed the Wizard's information, Faramir replied, "Well, I suppose that means I should not rip grass from the ground anymore."

The Grey Wanderer looked at his student with slight confusion. "No, I am afraid not, my young lad, not unless you wish to endure the sorrow of the plants you killed. But why on earth would you want to do such a thing?"

"Throwing clumps of soil and grass is a fun way to irritate Boromir," the child answered flatly.

Mithrandir laughed heartily as he said, "Well, from now on, you will have to find some other way to annoy your brother." 

*****

When Faramir had finally completed his exploration of every tree, plant and flower that blossomed within the gardens, he strolled to one of the marble balconies. As he stood on the platform, his grey eyes marvelled at the majestic scenery that lay beneath him. Faramir breathed in deeply the fresh spring air, feeling new life circulating within his veins. He then moved his face towards the light, welcoming the warm sunshine. The young Steward felt rejuvenated from its glow as he rested his hands upon the cool stone rail. 

While his fingers moved ever so slightly over the marble's smooth surface, Faramir's heart suddenly felt gloomy again. He realized that his gaze faced eastward, where the War that would determine the fate of Middle-Earth was being fought. The Lord of the City felt both fear and guilt; fear for what might happen if Frodo failed his quest, and guilt because he was still very ill from the Black Breath when Aragorn and his men rode out from Minas Tirith, leaving Faramir incapable of defending his beloved homeland at the time of her greatest need. As the young Captain contemplated the hopelessness of the situation, he abruptly became aware of someone calling his name.

Faramir immediately turned to face the voice, and he recognized it be that of the Warden's. But his attention was focused solely on the golden-haired maiden that strolled towards him. He nearly gasped at the Lady's graceful presence. Only his legendary self-discipline prevented him from displaying the full force of his emotions. Not since the death of Finduilas had Faramir witnessed so much beauty and sadness reside in the soul of one person. His heart filled with great pity for this fair, tall woman that now stood before him. _There is nothing I can say, whether it be in Adûnaic, or in the Elven-tongues of Quenya and Sindarin, that would begin to describe her loveliness and sorrow,_ he thought silently.

The Lord of the City longed to know what was causing the maiden so much despair. He summoned his Númenorian talents in an attempt to decipher her thoughts. Faramir discerned through her proud exterior that she was a fierce and formidable warrior. This fact did not surprise him, for he was well-educated man, and he knew of the ancient Rohirrim tradition that trained noble ladies to fight as Shield-maidens. 

As Faramir probed further, it seemed to him that she had lost all desire to remain in this world. He saw the profound grief that consumed her mind, and guessed that the young woman was mourning the deaths of her kindred. He also detected that someone whom she treasured dearly had recently broken her heart. The Captain said to himself, _Oh, Lady, if only you knew how much I want to lift the Shadow that haunts thy spirit, to see you free from every pain that plagues thee._

As Éowyn approached the figure that stood in the gardens, she had expected to meet a fat, cantankerous, old man. When she was finally able to see the Steward clearly, the Lady of Rohan was completely stunned to discover how false her predictions were. Though the Lord Faramir was grave in his posture, she thought he was quite youthful and handsome. He possessed a scholarly air about him, and she read in his features that he was wise beyond his years. 

_But his mild facade does not fool me,_ Éowyn murmured to herself. The White Lady perceived beneath his gentlemanly surface that he was a stern soldier, a Captain not to be trifled with. She immediately sensed the type of warrior Faramir was; though he was not as brawny as a Rohirrim man, what he lacked in pure brute strength, he more than compensated with his speed, quick-wittedness and finesse. Éowyn's experience as a Shield-maiden told her that no Rider of the Mark could ever defeat him in combat. 

The Lady of Rohan suddenly became aware of Faramir's intense, grey eyes. The Steward's gaze startled her slightly, for it seemed to pierce right through her heart. She sensed that he was anxiously trying to uncover all of the hidden secrets of her soul. Éowyn shivered underneath the Steward's glare, for it made her feel vulnerable and exposed, and there was nothing that she loathed more in herself than being weak when facing an opponent. And yet, the maiden found herself unable to break away from his stare, for the Lord Faramir exuded a subtle tenderness that she found almost…irresistible.

Although Éowyn felt uncomfortable while her psyche was being examined with such scrutiny, she spoke firmly. "I cannot lie in sloth, idle, caged. I looked for death in battle. But I have not died, and the battle still goes on. I wish to ride to the Black Gates of Mordor."

Raising his right hand, Faramir swiftly gave the Warden the signal to leave. The young man admired the maiden's desire to go to war despite her injuries, and he felt saddened to inform her that he would not be able to fulfill her request.

"What would you have me do, my Lady?" the young Captain inquired, looking at her helplessly. "I also am a prisoner of the healers."

Éowyn did not respond. The White Lady was astonished at his reply, for she did not expect him to be so accepting of her demands. She had prepared herself for a confrontation; to argue that though she was born a woman, her heart was as strong as any man's, and that she was perfectly capable of defending herself. Éowyn felt her composure deteriorate further beneath Faramir's warmth and understanding. She scolded at herself. _What in Valar's name is wrong with me? What sort of Shield-maiden am I to be trembling before this unarmed man? No one has ever made me feel so weak and helpless in their presence._

"What do you wish?" Faramir repeated, his tone laced with concern at her silence. "If it lies in my power, I will do it," he assured her.

"I would have you command this Warden, and bid him to let me go." Her intonation resonated with pride, but even as she mouthed the words, the Lady of Rohan knew that in her heart, she was faltering into pieces. Doubt filled her mind, and Éowyn wondered whether she could really go through with her task. _The Lord Faramir probably thinks I am but a silly, aimless child who cannot finish what she has started,_ she thought quietly. Ashamed at her frailty, Éowyn instinctively wanted to return to the Houses and hide herself from his powerful glare.

The young Steward sensed a change in the maiden's poise; it was as if she was shrinking back from him. Faramir wondered if he had done anything to make her feel this way. He carefully chose his next words, not wishing for Éowyn to feel humiliated in his presence. 

"I myself am in the Warden's keeping," he told her. "Nor have I yet taken my authority in the City. But had I done so, I should still listen to his counsel, and should not cross his will in matters of his craft, unless in some great need."

"But I do not desire healing!" the Shield-maiden exclaimed. "I am not a brittle damsel who cries every time she receives a bruise! I wish to ride to war like my brother Éomer, or better like Théoden the king, for he died and has both honour and peace."

Faramir sighed. He felt that his heart would burst, for he did not wish to notify her of the bad news. "It is too late, Lady, to follow the Captains, even if you had the strength," he finally answered. "For I too desire nothing more than to be on the frontlines and defend Gondor against her foes. But death in battle may come to us all yet, willing or unwilling. You will be better prepared to face it in your own manner, if while there is still time you do as the Healer commanded. You and I, we must endure with patience the hours of waiting."

The Lord of the City watched as a single tear fell down from Éowyn's eye. The maiden lowered her head in grave disappointment. She craved to be in the midst of battle, fighting side by side with her brother. Her heart suddenly felt lifeless and empty. _Oh, Éomer!_ she wailed silently. _Will you die without me, too, like our uncle and cousin?_

The White Lady's voice was now barely above a whisper, and it was riddled with sorrow when she spoke to the Steward again. "But the healers would have me lie in abed seven days yet. And my window does not look eastward."

"Your window does not look eastward?" Faramir asked with genuine concern. He smiled warmly, hoping to bring some cheer to Éowyn's mood. "That can be amended. I am grateful there is at least one service that I can provide for you. In this I will command the Warden. If you will stay in this house in our care, Lady, and take your rest, then you shall look east, whither all our hopes have gone. And here you will find me, walking and waiting, and also looking east. It would ease my care, if you would speak to me, or walk at whiles with me."

Éowyn was puzzled by his statement. What could the Lord Faramir possibly see in her, a cold-blooded Shield-maiden from the North? "How should I ease your care, my Lord?" she inquired. "There is nothing to be gained from my miserable company. And I do not desire the speech of living men."

The Captain was afraid to tell Éowyn the truth, for he was uncertain how she would react if she knew of his feelings. Faramir feared that she would reject him, for he was aware that her heart belonged to another lord. He also worried that the Lady of Rohan might misinterpret his advances. She was a Shield-maiden, and she was perfectly capable of breaking his nose. But Faramir was not by nature a deceptive man, and simply said to the maiden, "Would you have my plain answer?" 

Éowyn thought that was a silly question. For years, she had to endure the poisonous lies of Gríma Wormtongue, the former advisor of King Théoden. Besides a glorious death in battle, there was nothing else in the world The White Lady found more refreshing than the truth. She replied out loud, "I would."

Faramir hesitated before he spoke. "Then, Éowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful. In the valleys of our hills there are flowers fair and bright, and the maidens fairer still; but neither flower nor lady have I see 'til now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful. It may be that that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon our world, and when it comes, I hope to face it steadily; but it would ease my heart, if while the Sun yet shines, I could see you still. For you and I have both passed under the wings of the Shadow, and the same hand drew us back."

The Lady of Rohan could not believe what she had just heard. The young man had practically uttered poetry into her ears. She almost laughed at Faramir's declaration, thinking that his mind must be suffering from delusions. 

"Alas, not me, Lord!" Éowyn shouted. "Shadow lies on me still. Look not to me for healing! I am a Shield-maiden and my hand is ungentle. But I thank you for this at least, that I need not keep to my chamber. I will walk abroad by the grace of the Steward of the City."

The White Lady performed a courtesy, and Faramir watched as she proceeded back to her chambers. The young Captain remained in the gardens long after Éowyn had departed. He was relieved that she had agreed to accompany him, for at least it meant that she did not resent his friendship. While the Lord Faramir continued walk among the trees, a smile crept on to his features; he was amused to discover that his gaze now turned towards the Houses rather than towards the east.


	4. The Houses

**The Houses of Healing**  
Chapter 4 – The Houses  
by Siberia

I would like to give special thanks to RiverRatRogue for pointing out a little mistake that I made in the original version of this chapter.

* * *

When the sun had finally reached its zenith, Faramir left the tranquility of the gardens and returned to his chamber in the Houses. The natural scenery no longer warmed his heart in the same manner as it did earlier in the morning, for Éowyn's departure had made him feel lonely and restless. As the young man walked up the stairs, he pondered over his feelings for the White Lady, and he was astonished to discover how much he had fallen for the fair maiden. Though Faramir had only conversed with Éowyn for but a few minutes, he already tasted the bitter pain of her separation. He was certain that it was no longer pity that stirred in his soul, but pure, unrelenting love.

When the Steward opened the door to this room, he noticed for the first time that a large book lay upon the windowsill. The volume looked ancient and it had a rich blue cover laced with an elegant, silver inscription. It looked very unfamiliar. Faramir was puzzled, for he had read every single tome in Minas Tirith and wondered where it could have came from. He approached the window and lifted the book into his hands; it was surprisingly light for its size. On the first page, he found a hand-written message personally addressed to him, composed in black ink. It read:

  
  
_To my dear nephew Faramir,_

I hope this book finds you well. I found this manuscript while searching through your mother's old chamber. It was one of her favourite stories while we were growing up. No doubt you already have a copy of this tale somewhere in one of your grand libraries, but I thought you would appreciate it more in its original version, and in the beautiful colours of Dol Amroth. 

I meant to give it to you when you arrived in Minas Tirith, but your father's sour mood and his harsh words concerning Boromir's death made me deem the moment unripe. I do not know how many times I have already told you this, but you should never listen to Denethor when he tells you that you are unworthy. All of Gondor loves you. Never forget that. I heard the soldiers and the townspeople wailing and crying out your name when I carried your seemingly lifeless body back to your father. And I care very much for you, too, for you are all I have left of my beloved sister.

As I am writing these words, you are resting peacefully, for the Lord Aragorn seems to have healed you from your sickness. My heart aches to tell you what happened to Denethor, but I leave this matter in the hands of Mithrandir. May this book help you pass the time during your recovery in the Houses of the Healing. Dark days lie ahead of us, and I may perish in battle, but I do have hope that I will see you again.

Your uncle,   
Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth 

  
  
Faramir was deeply touched by his uncle's kind words, and for a moment, he felt released from every worry that plagued his spirit. He regretted very much that he saw Imharil seldom throughout his life, for Denethor did not wish his sons to become too familiar with their mother's side of the family. For as long as he could recall, a rift had existed between the Dol Amroth Prince and the old Steward. Faramir had always suspected that his uncle detested the way Finduilas was treated throughout her marriage, and no doubt Imrahil blamed his brother-in-law for her untimely death.

Eager to start his reading, the young Captain settled himself in a chair. He abruptly remembered that Mithrandir sat in this very seat when the Wizard told him of Denethor's demise. A memory of violence immediately flooded into his mind…

*****

Faramir heard loud, thunderous footsteps marching up the staircase. He did not pay much attention to them, for his thoughts were fully consumed in the Sindarin poetry that he was studying. 

"_What_ are you doing here?" the Lord Denethor demanded, his voice thick with anger as he burst through the door.

Faramir jumped at the Steward's shout, distracting him from his book. "I…I was just reading, father," the six-year old boy answered shakily.

The old man's eyes glowered at his youngest son. "I heard from the sword-master today that you did not attend your lessons! Is this true?"

Faramir felt his heart beating quickly, for he had never seen his father so furious before. He meekly replied, "Yes."

"_Why?_" Denethor hissed.

"I…I do not like swords or fighting," the child responded. "I am not like Boromir. I really did not feel like going, so I decided to visit the library instead."

His father slapped him hard across his face. Faramir never felt so much pain in his life. A stinging pain seared his left cheek. The lad instinctively moved his fingers towards the wound, and he was horrified to learn that blood trickled from it. Denethor's silver ring had sliced through his skin.

The Steward continued to yell. "I do not _care_ if you feel like fighting or not. Every noble man must learn the ways of war!" The old man paused, attempting to catch his breath. "You are such an ungrateful wrench! I provide you with the best sword-master in Gondor, and this is how you repay me?"

Faramir was close to tears as he pleaded for forgiveness. "I am sorry, father. I promise this will never happen again."

"For your sake, I hope it does not!" Denethor snapped. "What kind of a son are you? Boromir is never this disobedient. You should be learning from your brother, not these dusty old stories! From now on, I want you be present for your sword lessons. Is that understood?"

The boy tried his best to suppress his sobs. "Yes, father."

*****

Ignoring the painful images of Denethor's coldness and brutality, Faramir began exploring the pages of his mother's book. A faint, sweet scent arose from the manuscript. For reasons he could not explain, it instantly reminded him of Finduilas' long, dark hair. Perhaps he had played with it every time he had sat in her lap as she recounted him tales of Arda's creation and history. The young man sighed at his mother's memory; being in her arms was probably the last time he ever felt completely safe. 

When Faramir attempted to examine the Elvish scripture, he found it surprisingly difficult to concentrate on the text. No matter how hard he tried, he could not prevent the images of Éowyn's beauty from consuming his thoughts. Frustrated, he placed the tome back on the windowsill. Ever since he had encountered the Lady of Rohan, Faramir's mind had become enraptured in the source of her despair. His inquisitiveness about the golden-haired maiden had gotten the better of him, and he summoned for the Warden.

"You called for me, my Lord?" the old man asked.

The young Steward turned away from the window to face him, and replied, "Yes, I did. I am very curious about what ails the Lady Éowyn. Something more seems to be broken than her shield-arm. What do you know of her?"

The Warden shrugged his shoulders. "Very little, I am afraid," he answered. "The only thing I have heard is that she has ridden to Gondor against the will of the Lord Théoden, and that she has been wounded by a great foe. One of the healers has complained that she is extremely stubborn and uncooperative."

Faramir's eyes drifted to the floor, disappointed with the small amount of information he had.

"But I doubt not, Lord," the Master of the Houses continued, "that you would learn more from the Halfling that is with us; for he was in the riding of the King, and with the Lady at the end, they say."

The young man's face lit up. "Is the Halfling well enough to speak with me?" Faramir inquired, in an almost impatient tone.

The Warden nodded his head. "Yes, my Lord. He has been hurt, but his injuries are healing nicely. Shall I bring him to you?"

"Yes, please," the Captain quickly responded. "That would be most appreciated." 

*****

In the meanwhile, the Lady Éowyn had been moved to another room within the Houses. She immediately dismissed the maidens that accompanied her, for she did not wish to be disturbed. She approached the window, and parted the doors that enclosed it, allowing the radiant sunshine to seep through her chamber. Its warmth did not soothe her heart, however, for as the maiden peered out into the distance, she perceived the great doom that lay eastward. She worried about Éomer, and to a lesser extent, Aragorn as well. After she had remained in this trance for a few minutes, Éowyn quickly dismissed her thoughts. With some difficulty, she placed her clothing and most of her belongings in the large, wooden drawers. She cursed herself for sending the servant ladies away, for it was not easy to put away her things with only one good arm.

The White Lady then carefully inspected her remaining armour. She was relieved that her chain mail had survived the assault, but was saddened to discover that she could not salvage the helm. It also hurt being bereft of her Rohirrim shield, which was shattered into pieces beneath the crushing blow of the Witch-King's weapon. But what distressed Éowyn the most was the loss of her sword. Beautiful and deadly, it was much more than simply a mean to defend herself; the blade was a symbol of all her skill and worth as a Shield-maiden and as a woman.

When Éowyn had completed her task, she lay herself down softly onto the mattress. Almost immediately, her mind then drifted towards her meeting with the Lord Faramir. The maiden wondered why he greatly desired to spend time with her. She had accepted the Steward's invitation out of politeness, but she still distrusted the sincerity of his intentions. Not to mention that his gaze was most disconcerting.

Éowyn's grey eyes then scanned the chamber for a mirror, and when she glimpsed at her own reflection, she saw a pale, sickly, lifeless creature staring back at her. _What on earth does Faramir see in me?_ she pondered. The Lady of Rohan then moved her head back to its original position and uttered silently, _Why am I so suspicious of him, when he has been nothing but courteous to me? Why can I not accept his words at face value?_

The answer then dawned on Éowyn before she even had the chance to suppress the bile that had risen in her throat: Gríma Wormtogue. "Oh, that _snake_!" she hissed. She recalled the first time she discovered his lecherous intent.

*****

Éowyn had just turned fourteen years old. She had celebrated her birthday with her family and friends in the Golden Hall of Edoras. The day had been perfect, for she was surrounded by much love and happiness. The young maiden was blessed with many wonderful gifts, and everyone agreed that the special feast that had been prepared in her honour was magnificent.

However, as the festivities ended, Éowyn's bliss soon became a nightmare. It was very late, and she wished to return to her chambers. Before she could enter, the maiden heard a cold, slippery voice.

"Hello, my young Lady."

Startled, she turned around to see who had spoken to her. Gríma had slipped from the shadows, and he slithered towards her position. The maiden observed that his manner seemed more oily and sticky than usual.

"Uh, greetings, Gríma." Éowyn found his behaviour strange. Before this night, her uncle's advisor had never ere appeared so close to her room. She recoiled in disgust when she noticed that little drips of saliva had seeped through his lips.

"You are now fourteen years old. What a lovely young woman you have become." Wormtongue stood close to Éowyn now, and he proceeded to caress her hair and face. His cold fingers made her tremble with horror, and his breath was putrid.

"Do not touch me!" she screamed, trying to fight him off, but he was too strong. He pressed his body against hers, his fingers exploring every curve of her figure. Éowyn feared what he might do to her as she began to choke on her own bile.

Gríma whispered maliciously into her ear. "I can show you pleasures beyond your wildest imaginations, my Lady. You need only to allow me to do so."

Éowyn cried, "NO! GET OFF OF ME!" Her hands struggled to find the knob to her door. When she had finally grasped it, she moved swiftly into her chamber, and with a great force and speed, she slammed the door into his face. The young woman promptly locked it, her heart thumping faster than the gallop of horses.

"Just so you know," Wormtongue hissed through the barrier, "I am available to you at any time. I wish you goodnight. I hope to see you soon, my Lady." 

*****

Éowyn suddenly became aware of the muted chatter of the healers. She was furious, for the servant girls had left her door wide open. She began to feel insecure, and hoped that no patient or healer had witnessed her in her greatest state of vulnerability. When she was about to shut her door, the White Lady saw Meriadoc Brandybuck pass by her entrance.

Her eyes opened wide with surprise. "Master Holbytla!" Éowyn cried out.

The Hobbit turned to the sound of the Lady's voice and exclaimed, "Éowyn! I am so glad to see you are recovering! I was so worried about you. I am sorry that I did not get the chance to visit you earlier, but those incessant healers would not allow me leave my bed!"

Merry's enthusiasm and smile brought joy to her heart, if only briefly. "No need to apologize," the Lady of Rohan responded. "I know how irritating they can be." 

She abruptly realized that the Warden was standing behind her friend, looking somewhat hurried. "Where are you taking him?" Éowyn demanded. 

The old man replied, "The Lord Faramir wishes to see him."

Her eyes then focused on Merry once again. In an instant, she became even more suspicious of the Lord of the City. "Is that right?" she asked with concern.

"Yes," the Halfling answered flatly, "but I am curious as to why he wants to talk to me. What could I possibly know that would interest the Steward of Gondor?" 

Éowyn did not like this situation at all. "I do not rightly know," she uttered.

"I am not sure how long this meeting is going to take," Merry added, "but I do wish to meet you for supper. Is that alright with you, my Lady?"

Éowyn nodded her head in approval. "Certainly, Meriadoc! We can meet in my chambers in the evening, then."

The Hobbit waved his hand as he passed her room. "See you soon!"

The Shield-maiden watched as the Warden directed her friend down the hallway until they disappeared from her sight. She became apprehensive, not knowing what kind of information the Lord Faramir wished to extract from Merry. As she closed the door to her room, Éowyn hoped she would not be the topic of their conversation.


	5. Meriadoc Brandybuck

**The Houses of Healing**  
Chapter 5 – Meriadoc Brandybuck  
by Siberia

I hope you don't mind, but there's a little less introspection here and more dialogue than usual. I just wanted Merry to have a more prominent role, since I never had a chance to write about him. Also, I think it's important to know what he contributed to Faramir and Éowyn's romance.

* * *

The Warden, followed by a nervous Merry, halted in front of the entrance that belonged to the Steward of Gondor. The old man knocked against the hard wood, and a muffled voice emerged from behind the barrier.

"Who is it?" Faramir asked.

"I have brought the Halfling, as you have requested, my Lord," the Master answered.

"Bring him in."

The Warden then reached out for the doorknob, pushed it forward, and beckoned Merry to enter. The Hobbit then stepped cautiously into the chamber, not knowing what he should expect on the other side. He at once jumped, startled by the sound of the door when it shut abruptly behind him. Merry, feeling somewhat embarrassed by his shaky demeanor, at once turned to face the Steward. 

Merry immediately gasped in astonishment at the man sitting by the windowsill. For an instant, he believed that Boromir had miraculously come back to life. The Lord Faramir was tall with black hair and grey eyes, and at first glance, he appeared to be much like his older brother. However, as Merry continued to observe the man more closely, he began to notice subtle differences. Faramir was clearly younger in age, and not nearly as broad or muscular as Boromir. He also possessed an elegant air about him, almost Elven-like in its quality.

The young man did not need his Dúnedain gifts to read the plain anxiety that spread across the face of his guest. He rose from his chair, and paced towards the Hobbit until he stood at an arm's length away from him.

"I am the Lord Faramir, the Steward of Gondor and the Captain of the White Tower," he said politely. "What is your name?"

Merry had to bend his neck upwards meet the Steward's gaze. "I am Meriadoc Brandybuck of the Shire, and Holdwine of the Mark."

Faramir raised an eyebrow at the Halfling's last remark. He had already seen the Perian named Peregrin who had assisted his father, and was amused to learn that another of his kind was helping the King of Rohan.

"You served the Lord Théoden before his death?" the Captain demanded, his voice revealing his avid curiosity on the matter.

"Yes," Merry replied, nodding his head. "And since King Éomer has rode off to war, I am now in the service of the Lady Éowyn."

Hearing her name being uttered out loud made Faramir's heart soar with excitement, but he did not permit for any of his emotions to appear on his stern features. He had no doubt that the Halfling would report everything they had conversed about to the Rohirrim princess, and he wished to ensure that Meriadoc did not suspect his true motive for talking to him. Faramir thought it was best to inquire about the recent activities of his guest.

"How did you become a Holdwine of the Mark, if you do not mind my asking?"

Merry shuffled his hairy feet against the smooth floor, slightly uncomfortable with the Steward's sudden interest in his past. "I do not feel that I can adequately answer your question, my Lord, for 'tis a very long story."

Faramir could see the Halfling's discomfort, and he swiftly adopted a different approach. "That is alright," he assured his guest. "You do not have to tell me about it if you do not wish to. I am curious, though. Are you a friend of Frodo, Samwise, and Peregrin?"

"Yes, they are my companions," Merry answered, his tone showing the deep concern he felt for them. "How do you know of them?"

The Captain smiled; he had finally found a subject that Meriadoc would open his thoughts to. "I encountered Frodo and Samwise in Ithilien while my men and I were scouting the area," Faramir explained. "And as for Peregrin, he served my late father as his bondsman."

As predicted, the Hobbit's face lit up, eager to hear of any news concerning the Ringbearer. "You met Frodo and Sam? How were they? It has been so long since I have seen them!"

"They were well when I left them, but they travel a dangerous road to Mordor," Faramir responded gravely. "I fear for them greatly, as you do." 

The young Steward at once recalled his meeting with Frodo and Sam at the sanctuary of Henneth Annûn. Twelve nights ere he had brought them to the Window on the Sunset, while Faramir and his Rangers patrolled the borders of the Moon-land, he had received a horrific dream foreshadowing Boromir's death. Four days later, his suspicions were confirmed when he found his sibling's cloven horn and witnessed the passing of his funeral boat near the falls of Rauros. Faramir was heart-broken, blaming himself for his Elven visions and his inability to prevent Boromir from embarking on what should have been his quest. When the Captain had encountered the two Halflings, he was disappointed that they could tell him nothing of his brother's untimely demise. 

_Perhaps this Perian can answer my questions._ After a brief pause, Faramir asked his guest, "You were part of the fellowship, am I correct?"

Merry nodded his head. "Yes, my Lord."

Faramir tried to hold back his tears, ignoring the pain of his brother's death. With the threat of Mordor so close to his homeland, he had no time to mourn and digest his loss, and he found it difficult to conceal his sorrow. "Then, you traveled with Boromir," he stated flatly.

"Of course. You are… Boromir's brother, are you not?" the Hobbit inquired hesitantly.

The young man grinned slightly at Meriadoc, amused by his observation. "Is it so obvious?"

"Well, there is a very strong family resemblance."

Faramir chuckled, though sadness still strained his voice. "I have heard that many times before."

Merry then lowered his eyes to the ground, preparing himself to inform the Steward what he felt the man deserved to know of his sibling's passing. "Since you are his brother, I feel that I should tell you, Boromir was the bravest man I have ever met. He died in battle trying to save me and Pippin from a swarm of Orcs."

Faramir sighed. _At least Boromir died honourably. He would not have his life end in any other fashion._ A few tense moments passed between them before the Captain broke their silence. "I know these memories must be painful for you," he uttered compassionately, "but I have been left in the dark about this matter. I hoped that you could tell me everything you can about my brother's last days. It would mean so much to me."

"It will take an incredibly long time to recount, my Lord!" the Halfling exclaimed, baffled at the young man's request.

"Meriadoc, I assure you that I have all the time in the world."

And so Merry spent long hours telling the Steward of Gondor of his adventures since his departure from Rivendell. In the late afternoon, they strolled in the gardens together, still deep in speech. As they conversed, Faramir absorbed every single word that the Hobbit recounted to him, especially of the time he spent in Rohan and his journey to Gondor in the presence of the Lady Éowyn. Merry had become so immersed in his storytelling that he had forgotten completely that the Lord of the City had inquired only of Boromir, and continued to speak of every event that happened to him until Pippin had carried his injured body to the Houses of Healing. Faramir learned much of the fair maiden's plight, more so than the Perian would have thought possible to gather from such fragmented pieces of information.

When Meriadoc had finally completed his tale, he begged for the Steward's leave, for he needed to keep a prior engagement. Faramir promptly dismissed him, and continued his walk amongst the trees and the flowers. Throughout their talk, the young man would occasionally glance at the entrance of the gardens, hoping Éowyn would appear to greet them. But as the sky grew dark, he soon begun to realize that she would not be seeking his company for the rest of the evening. Feeling somewhat hurt, Faramir then sat on one on the stone benches, hoping to purge his melancholic thoughts. His grey eyes instinctively sought the comfort of the heavens, gazing silently at the twinkling stars for hours on end.

* * *

I'm sorry that this chapter isn't complete yet, but I thought you guys would still like to read what I had so far. Éowyn and Merry are coming up in the next part. I'll understand if you don't feel like reviewing, since you can only review each section once, and I think it's better to wait until I finish it. 


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